Zombie

4. Zombie

When I got home that afternoon, I heard my mom and dad roaring at each other again. What else was new? Ever since my father was demoted the year before, it was like the yelling and the cursing was a necessity at home. Naturally, the quarrels were about money and how my father pissed it away. At some point during each squabble, my mother would mention how hard she slaved away, how long her hours were, just to make up for his stupid mistake. Apparently, because of an accounting error he made, the branch of the automotive company he worked for lost around eighty thousand dollars. But because he’d been working there for ten years, they decided not to fire him.
This all would’ve been good news if his salary wasn’t considerably lower. It was low enough to make mom double her hours and make me baby-sit my seven year old sister instead of hiring a nanny.
Now you know what I meant when I said that family was harder to deal with.
However, before he was demoted, my dad was a reserved man, who, from just the way he stood, exuded pride and discipline. On a first impression, one would’ve presumed that he was cold or snobbish. But he’d make up for it in his endearments. His congratulatory nudge on the shoulder when I got an A on a test, or high five when I got a job freshman year at the bowling alley was more than enough to satisfy me. He used to come home every night with a pleased look on his face and peck my mom on the cheek, asking if her day wasn’t too hectic. Then he’d listen intently to my sister’s childish jokes at the dinner table or ask me if I wanted to join him on his nightly, quiet jog.
I tiptoed across the faux Persian rug that adorned the hallway and positioned myself behind the stairway. I listened to what were now my father’s nightly rounds. Shame was what clouded his face when I looked at him. He was no longer a symbol of success, but rather, a pathetic unshaven loser who slouched in front of my mother as she yelled at him. She inquired why he didn’t buy the gallon of milk that he clenched in his hands from the mini mart around the corner instead of the superstore next to his office.
“It’s two dollars cheaper”, she said, “I’ve told you time and time again that the superstore likes to rip people off. We can’t afford to double the price on all our groceries just because you’re too lazy to drive a few miles to the mini mart. If you had just gone there, like I asked, we wouldn’t have this problem. But it’s like you insist on defying me, Chris!”
He sighed and tossed the milk onto the counter. “Well, I’m sorry I’m too busy to drive all the way across town for a gallon of fucking milk, Hannah! I don’t have time for that bullshit. You’re the one with two breaks, why didn’t you get it?”
She poked her finger into his chest. “I had too much shit to do today to take any of my breaks. I asked you this morning for a reason. God damn it! I told you to go to the mini mart and you said ok!”
He slapped her finger away from him and told her he was used to just nodding and saying “ok” nowadays. Her nagging was easily ignorable, he said.
I slumped on one of the carpeted steps, bored of their incessant need to make things worse and not just comply. Why didn't they just get divorced already? I mean, I really didn't care; anything to make the yelling stop.
I grew restless and made my way up the stairs, slamming the door behind me. I sat on the floor and turned on the Xbox, hoping that stealing a virtual car and running over a pixilated pedestrian would give me some solace.
My mom came up to my room later when she realized I was home. Her face was wrinkled. Not from age, but from frustration. Her eyes looked weak and dazed. Her dirty blonde hair was tied up into a frizzy bun. I tried to ignore it all, but she was just a mess.
"There's dinner in the fridge."
"I'm not hungry."
She sighed and turned. She reached for the handle but I grabbed her arm. I wanted to yell at her, accuse her of worsening my day. Use all the typical teen angst phrases. But I couldn’t let a word out. I just held her gaze until she came back inside and closed the door behind her so as my little sister across the hall wouldn't hear. It really didn't matter if she did though. She probably already heard the screaming anyway.
"Look, hun, your father and I are just facing a rough patch."
"Yeah, whatever."
She stared at the floor. For a nurse, my mom was not very good at making me feel better.
"We'll get through it, ok?” She laid a hand on my shoulder. “It's no big deal. Don't worry about it."
And with that, she left. Her empty condolences had no effect on me, as I had grown numb of all the excuses and attempts to try and raise my spirit.
I watched my dad's Ford Taurus pull out of the garage through my bedroom window. And then, I watched my little sister, May, open my door and run into my room, and cry heavily into my shoulder.
I didn't really care for little children but May was my sister. She shared the same blood, the same long, frustrating nights at the Peterson household. If I didn’t comfort her, who would? I motioned for her to sit beside me. Her large blue eyes stared at me until they began to drown in her tears once more. I lay my hand on her sleek blonde hair, tied nicely into a braid, like always, and gave her a reassuring smile.
“It’s alright May, don’t cry.”
“Why are they so mad?” she sniffled.
“People just get angry sometimes. It’s normal.” I lied, while caressing her back.
She buried her head in my chest. "Don't worry, May."

I probably said that twenty times over the past year. And as I lay on the floor of May's bedroom that night to keep the boogie man from devouring her, I decided that I had to call Bobby.
I lifted my head from the floor and looked over May's sleeping body. I pulled her comforter closer to her chin and tucked it in between her small frame. After leaving her room my stomach growled and I realized that I had to delay that call to Bobby.
I snuck quietly beyond my mom’s room (about two months before, she decided that she and my father would have separate rooms because they couldn’t tolerate each other even when they were seemingly lifeless). I made it down the stairs and when I reached the fridge I drooled with thoughts of sandwiches and ice cream. Or an ice cream sandwich.
I stuffed my face with cold leftover pizza, and eventually picked up the phone from its base on the counter. My fingers numbly ran over some numbers on the phone as I wondered about what homework I didn't do that night that I could've done. I wondered if Mom cried herself to sleep. I wondered if Val actually liked me. I wondered if there was a boogie man. I wondered what Bobby was doing.
Suddenly, there was a crackling on the other end of the line. He picked up.
"Hey."
"Hey Sam, what's up?"
"Nothing, just bored out of my mind."
"Well you're coming over tomorrow, right? That should cure you."
"Yeah, what time do you want me over to decorate?"
"Ummm...five would be good. I figure it would take about an hour to set up and then we can get ready for the dance, pick up the girls, and head off. And then, at 10:30, the real party starts…at my place!"
"Cool."
"So what are you gonna be for the dance tomorrow?"
I paused and searched my head for something, anything that would prove I put some thought into the costume. But, of course, there was nothing. I didn’t have any idea of what I wanted to be.
“I knew you didn’t have a costume” he laughed.
“What do you think I should be?”
“I don’t know. Do something easy. Be an animal or something.”
I didn’t want to laugh manically, so I said nothing.
“Ok, no to the animal then.” he snickered.
I stared at my reflection in the stainless refrigerator. What else could I be?
“I think… I think I’ll be a zombie.”

Bobby laughed again. “A zombie. Perfect.”